The Lighthouse
by OneDarkandStormyNight
Summary: A quiet fireside question on a snowy day of no case unexpectedly becomes a moment of revelation for an overly modest doctor who seriously undervalues himself and his significant character. NOT SLASH


_I went to Charleston, South Carolina a few weeks ago (I highly recommend there for a vacationing spot - it's splendid!) and from my room on a high floor at the Francis Marion Hotel I could see the faint outline of a lighthouse on the of the parallel islands. At night, I sat in the windowsill with my arms around my legs and my chin resting on my knees, looking out over the busy streets, and I could see bright glow of that lighthouse piercing the dark.  
__Thus, this story was born…  
__Thought it is not really a Christmas fic, it is set near Christmastime (hence the snow in the second paragraph), and it is a gift to all my fellow Holmesians and Sherlockians, from me to you…_

_MERRY CHRISTMAS!_

**The Lighthouse**

"What are you thinking, my dear fellow?" Holmes' cool voice, muffled behind his second pipe of the evening, broke through my reverie.

It was a frigid winter's day at Baker Street. Outside the window silent flakes drifted lazily to the already-white ground, adding to the slush on the icy streets and making me all the more thankful that we had no client; the very thought of treading through the snow in freezing temperatures, in search of some criminal or other, made my injured leg throb.

I pulled my eyes from the flickering fire and looked to him. He sat with his knees pulled up to his chest, smoking his pipe in his low armchair across from where I sat in my own. The expression on his white face informed me that he had been observing me for quite some time without my realizing it, as was his way when he was guessing my thoughts. He is fond of twitting me for my "expressive demeanor," as he so calls it, and so it is a rare occurrence indeed when he cannot decipher my expressions.

I sighed, feeling not at all willing to share my ponderings. "I was only contemplating something that has been weighing on my mind, Holmes."

"Oh? Pray tell."

I hesitated. Emotional discussions were not usually welcomed by my friend, and I wondered if perhaps it would be better for us both if I kept my thoughts to myself. However, the problem had been bothering me for quite some time, and I knew the only way it would dissipate would be from the words of my friend - if he had any to give, that is, and from every angle I could see, he would not.

"Watson, if it is too personal, I entirely understand." I could hear the rising curiosity behind his indifferent and slightly apologetic tone.

I took a deep breath, knowing it was time I faced the issue instead of pondering over it to myself.

"It's only that" - I shifted uncomfortably - "I was thinking about our past cases together."

"What of them?" More curiosity.

Putting away my fears, I said forwardly, "I was wondering what it is a actually _do_."

His brow wrinkled in confusion (an expression he wears much less often than is fair to his fellowman), and he removed his pipe. "Whatever do you mean, Watson?"

I could not meet his gaze. "It just seems that I am, for lack of a better word, utterly useless. All I do is stand in the background, taking notes and asking questions with obvious answers. You are the detective, and the one who solves these cases single-handedly.

"I'm not jealous of you, Holmes," I added hastily, "not at all. Your powers and abilities amaze and fascinate me; I have never been envious, only intrigued, I assure you. It's only that I don't comprehend why you tolerate me and my foolish mistakes and romantic whims, if you don't actually need me. I feel more of a burden than anything, really."

I winced as I finished, realizing I had admitted too much so openly, despite the fact that I had spoken calmly and distinctly as to avoid that possibility. The perplexity and distress had been nagging at my mind for days, weeks even, and now that it had an outlet, it was taking very advantage of it.

Still, I knew him well enough to know he was feeling completely awkward and annoyed by my emotional outburst.

When for a minute there was no response, I risked a glance at him. He was silent, thoughtful, staring at the flickering flame, until he said quietly, "You have been a great help on my instances, Watson."

"But not one you could not have done without," I finished sadly.

"On the contrary," said he firmly, "I have found on several occasions that having your presence with me has been an essential to solving the case."

"That makes no sense, Holmes," I told him tiredly, staring again into the crackling fire and feeling drained. "I had nothing to do with it; it is you who solves these cases, not I. I have assisted at times, true, but it was always something anyone present could have done. That being the case, Holmes, why me? I am not as intelligent or clever as you, not by any stretch."

When he did not answer, only sat back in his chair and replaced his pipe, I knew I had hit upon the truth, and it did not appear that he had any answer to my arguments.

To be completely honest, I had suspected from the beginning that he would not. I had struggled mentally for so many sleepless nights to produce an answer, going over every past case in my mind, examining my every action during each, and I had come to the undeniable conclusion that I was not, nor had I ever been, essential to him. If anything, I was a hindrance, a burden - my mental slowness and clumsy blunders had on more than one occasion held him back, and only succeeded to exasperate and annoy him greatly. I felt that all shameful, unwanted traits of mine overshadowed the positive and helpful ones, and it seemed that now my friend had only proven what I had felt all along.

Defeatedly, I returned my attention to the fireplace.

Just as I was about to open my mouth and tell him, while trying to hold back my grief and disappointment, that I would not longer burden him with my presence, he said presently,

"Watson, what is the function of a lighthouse?"

I was in no mood whatever for a mind game, but I answered, knowing that if I did not he would only continue pressing me until I did.

"Lighthouses are beacons for ships," I answered an obvious question with an obvious answer.

"Exactly Watson!" he said enthusiastically, as if I had just given some convoluted, philosophical response. "Now, let us for a moment imagine that the ships are the clients, and the lighthouse that leads them unto safety and security is this agency, yours and mine."

"You are the lighthouse, Holmes," I told him resolutely. I had the sudden, strange urge to smile as I realized how much of a lighthouse Holmes truly is - long, straight, and tall, solid and determined, a bright shining light for all who seek him.

He held up his index finger and leaned more forward, excitedly. "Ah, Watson, that is where you are mistaken.

"Holmes," I said patiently, but firmly, "clients seek for you in their darkest storms of life, when all hope seems lost, and your remarkable abilities pierce the darkness and bring them unto the shores of peace and safety."

He raised an eyebrow and stated with mild amusement, "I should have expected so quixotic a view from you, my dear Watson."

I huffed, more out of habit than true reaction.

"Hear me out, Watson," said he kindly, and I sat back obediently, but I knew that no matter what attempts he made, he could not change my mind. I was quote obstinate in my conviction.

"Perhaps I am the beacon, Watson, as you say. Perhaps the light I have been granted is what rescues the ships from the blackness in the storms." He voice rose suddenly. "But, Watson, tell me this - why is the light so effective? How is it different from any other lights on the shoreline?"

"It shines brighter than all the others," I answered, again picturing Holmes as just that - a light far brighter than any other, gleaming in the distance amongst so many duller glows.

"No, no, no," he replied, shaking his head vehemently, with a small amount of exasperation and an unusually great amount of patience. "It is the bulwark, Watson! Do you think the light would be even a third as beneficial if it sat flat on the ground, as all the others? If there was nothing to raise it into the sky, nothing to hold it high for all to see, do you think the ships would see it and feel hope?"

I felt my brows furrow as I pondered this. I knew this to be his ambiguous way of attempting to reassure me, but I still did not comprehend its meaning.

"And Watson," his voice was soft, his gray eyes shining in the golden glow of the fire that lit up half his profile, "the wall of the lighthouse is not only a support for the light so that it may shine for others; it is a bulwark of protection that encloses and shields the beacon from all harm that may come. Without the bulwark, the wind and rain of the storm would surely destroy the light long before it has the chance to serve its purpose to the best of its ability."

His voice was nearly a whisper in the silence as he leaned closer. "You see, Watson, I may be the beacon, but you, my dear fellow, you are the bulwark. Without you, my light could never shine. People would never be saved from the storms, because you would not be there to raise me up from my depths. And me, my dear, dear friend…I could never survive this violent tempest that is my existence, neither physically nor mentally.

"You are the strong, unwavering bulwark of my existence. No other man has ever been or could ever be that to me; it is a position you and you alone can hold. I cannot explain why, for I do not know - it is a great mystery to me, and one that I doubt I shall ever truly solve. Nevertheless, you are my foundation, what holds me strong and steady, what soothes my mind and calms my fears so that I may be a shining light for those around me.

"I told you once that I was very much in your debt, because it is that you kindle my brain and inspire my abilities. This is true, but you are not only that - you are more, old friend. You are my personal, stalwart defense and protection - you are what keeps me content and well, in more ways than what you perhaps realize. Never have you once disappointed me, and I doubt you ever shall in the future. And for that, I am indeed in your debt."

I did not know how to react, even if I was at that moment able. I could only stare speechless at him, unable to breathe, my eyes wide and my expression one of absolute astonishment.

His thin lips twitched in a soft, understanding smile as he leaned back leisurely in his armchair once again. After a long, slow puff on his pipe, he stated matter-of-factly, "That, my dear Watson, is the reason. I do hope you will not longer entertain such ridiculous notions - your mind is really too intelligent to be wasted on such foolish, unwarranted thoughts."

Minutes went by, then days, then weeks, but I never could form an appropriate response - and I still cannot, to this very day. I did not understand how extraordinary a human being could, despite all the wonderments that came associated with his character, come to _depend_ on a man such as I - simple-minded and commonplace.

However, through many years of enduring all hardships and difficulties by his side, have come to the conclusion that, despite the sheer impossibility of it, his words that day are nothing but truth.

He is the beacon. I am the bulwark. Together, we are the lighthouse.

END


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